Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Sheila Hageman is a mother
of three and author of Stripping Down: A Memoir, a meditation on womanhood and
body image, and Beautiful Something Else, a novel.

Please tell us about your current release.

At twelve years old,
everything changed for me with the discovery of my father’s porn collection.
Found locked away in a corner of the basement, the glossy images ignited in me
an unrelenting desire for attention and adoration. I lost sight of my dream of
being a writer and became obsessed with exercise, working out every day for
hours and barely eating. I became that which I thought men adored—a stripper
and a nude model.

Many years later when I
discovered my mother had breast cancer, I was faced with who I had become and
what I had used my body for. I quit stripping and returned to college to
graduate as valedictorian; I also became a yoga teacher through which I learned
how to take good care of my body and not be obsessive in my looks. I began
writing again and then went to graduate school for my MFA in Creative Writing.
At that time, reflections on my past as a stripper permeated my thoughts as I
took on the new roles of mother, caregiver and wife. While helping my baby
daughter take her first steps, I nursed my mother through the final stages of
breast cancer and truly faced who I had become and who I had been. The
resulting memoir was Stripping Down.
I am living my dream of writing everyday and helping other women to reach their
own dream through exploring their lives in words.

What inspired you to write this book?

I always knew I would
write about my stripper past because I felt my experiences might help other
women to understand their own choices in life. I also felt that for me to come
to terms with my past and poor choices I had made, I needed to explore my
journey and try to figure out what set me on the particular path I ended up on.

Excerpt from Stripping
Down: A Memoir:

UNLOCKING

I feel the weight of the hammer from
the dusty workbench in my sweaty palm and hit the padlock. My heart thumps in
my bony chest. I listen for the humming sound of my mother’s car backing into
the driveway. I hit again. I listen. The lock pops open.

I lift the musty boxes from the top
of the chest and set them aside. I pull the lock off, claw my chewed
fingernails under the thin lid and push it up.

What was this? Stacks of magazines
with women on the covers. I reach my pink fingers out toward the first one. A
busty, brunette Mrs. Claus bending over, offers me a shiny wrapped Christmas
gift. Her breasts squashed together, lopsided. She is not smiling; she is
opening her moist lips. Years later when I would be told “Lick your lips, no,
don’t smile,” for a Leg Tease cover photo shoot, I will remember her.

The magazines had various titles.
There was Hustler and Penthouse, Playboy and Oui.

In them were women in various states
of undress, but not like the images from our educational book upstairs that
showed black and white images of males and females standing nude, stoic from
babies to senior citizens. Those models were lined up, standing in the same
basic pose, completely desexualized. The porn women sucked their fingers,
licked their lips, opened their legs, and crouched in unusual positions.

I tasted orange juice in my throat.
I couldn’t swallow. Women weren’t supposed to appear like this. Something was
not right. My father was straight-laced, ordinary. Didn’t only dirty men look
at nudie pictures?

One spread stopped me—a young woman
with pigtails wearing denim shorts and a tied gingham shirt. She was on a farm,
leaning against a fence. As I flipped through the pages, she lost her clothing,
piece by piece, and ended inside a barn lying naked on trampled bales of hay.
She looked out at me, called me to enter her world. Her pubic area was
completely smooth. In another shot, she straddled a man’s bicycle with the bar
just beneath her stripped crotch. This was one of the pictures I went back to
and looked at many times as I developed into a woman. She was young like I was.
Innocent.

This was right after my parents’
divorce and amid impending puberty. My mother, my older sister, Peggy, and I
had moved into my grandparents’ house for three months while my father packed
up his stuff, searched for a condo, and moved out. As part of the divorce
settlement, my father got almost all the furniture.

A search of the house revealed there
was one thing my father didn’t take—a locked green chest in the basement. When
I asked my mother, she said it was definitely his. Peggy laughed. I wanted to
know what I was missing.

“There’s probably a dead body in
there,” I said.

“Or something.” Peggy slammed her
bedroom door.

“Photos of monkeys,” my mother said
and went to lie down.

What could be such a secret that it
had to be locked away? I would run downstairs after school every day, head for
the mildewed corner. Whatever was in there was important enough to my father
that he kept it locked up, but not important enough to take with him when he
left.

I was a girl entering the age of
womanhood, entering the real world, the adult world. All at once. No slow
entry, rather a flinging open of the doors.

I don’t know what I hoped to
accomplish by looking at the magazines. I was a girl—I wasn’t supposed to want
to see other women naked. Was I trying to understand who these women were and
why they did what they did? Who they were as little girls? Why my father
collected them? Why he hid them down in the basement? Did I think about my
father looking at them? Did I wonder what my father got out of looking at them?
Or was it simply curiosity that drew me to look?

Now, where blankness has been for so
long, a specific cover emerges. There is a meat grinder. A woman is being
lowered into it, underneath is hamburger meat. I felt sad, awful. I wasn’t
stupid. This image was trying to say something, but I didn’t know what.

Today, a quick Internet search
reveals: Hustler’s June 1978 cover. I look at it now and feel the same
fascination as my twelve-year-old self.

I go to the basement in my mind, and
the images come more quickly. Me crouched on the floor with a magazine on my
lap. Me seeing women pretending to be furniture. A woman on her hands and
knees, a desk that a man stacks paper on. A woman as a chair. A woman as a
horse, a bridle in her mouth. I want to see more.

The corner where I squatted was
shadowy, dank, as I pushed through the stacks.

The women look like they enjoy it.
They looked like they wanted to be treated that way, and I don’t understand. Is
it the attention that makes the humiliation worthwhile? Or do the women
actually enjoy being photographed nude? My parents raised me to believe that as
a girl I am worthwhile and I can be anything I want to be. I am equal to boys
in every way. But I never really believed that, and perhaps I didn’t because I
suspected that my parents didn’t believe it either. These photos confirm that
girls are different. These photos teach me that a woman is prized for being
naked, dumb, and subservient. Boys have power over girls. If girls want to be
loved they have to make sacrifices of the flesh. And then men will look at
them. And then men will love them.

The world I had known no longer
existed; I did not fit in anymore. I was stuck somewhere in the middle—no
longer a little girl, but not yet a woman like I saw in the photos.

My father left and began again
without me, a new life. I would have to learn to leave my old self behind,
too—start a new life.

I took a stack of magazines and hid
them in my closet. The magazine women, always waiting there for me, brought a
sense of safety. They modeled a possible way to know myself, which I hadn’t yet
found on my own.

I felt a sense of fear, I could feel
the two parts of myself separating, the innocent girl from the bad sexual
woman.

I learned from the magazine women. I
could showcase my beauty, and then maybe I would be admired. Maybe I would be
loved.

What exciting story are you working on next?

I am working on another
memoir dealing with body image and eating disorders. I’m also working on
fiction. My romance Beautiful Something Else was published in June and I’m now
working on something more toward the erotica side of romance.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

When I was a girl I fully
saw myself as a writer. In my late teens, I got distracted by acting and kind
of forgot that vision of myself. It wasn’t until I returned to college in my
mid-twenties that I began to see myself as a writer again.

Do you write full-time? If so, what's your work day
like? If not, what do you do other than write and how do you find time to
write?

At the moment, I work at a
college full-time as an Academic Mentor; I also adjunct teach at a few
colleges. I’m almost to the point where I want to trust myself enough to write
full-time, but it’s a scary step for me.

I write in the little moments of time in between my job and taking care of my
three kids. It is not easy. I’m usually very tired! I brainstorm new ideas on
my daily commute by talking into my mobile phone email app, which transcribes
what I say and then I can simply edit later.

What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

My interesting writing
quirk is that when I’m on a roll I can write up to 8,000 words a day. Well,
8,000 was my record, I think. But I can really pump out the words for a rough
draft quickly. I’ll go full-out like that for weeks and then just be resting
for a few weeks before I start editing.

As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

A writer all the way. Also
a horse jockey for a little while because that’s what my sister wanted to do.

Anything additional you want to share with the
readers?

I encourage everyone to
write, even if it’s just for his or her eyes. We can learn so much about
ourselves and the world by following where our thoughts lead us on the page.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Oakland author Adina Sara’s
debut novel, Blind Shady Bend, tells
of a woman whose life takes a sharp, unexpected turn when she inherits a rundown piece of country property. She has also published two collections of
essays and poetry. In 100 Words Per
Minute, she offers a look into the heart of clerical workers. In The Imperfect Garden, she explores the
elements of determination, disappointment and surprise that shaped her
landscape and life. Her essays have appeared in Persimmon, East Bay Express,
Pure Slush, and Peregrine Press. She was the feature garden columnist for an
Oakland, California newspaper, and currently divides her time between pulling
weeds, making music, and writing.

Welcome, Adina. Please tell us about your current
release.

Blind Shady Bend is my first novel. It tells the story of a woman approaching her 70th
birthday, who has lived a pretty uneventful life, taking care of her aging
parents, allowing the years to thicken around her so she has very little energy
to see beyond the drooping houseplants in her faded living room. But an event
occurs that puts her life into a state of upheaval – the surprising inheritance
from a runaway brother whom she had not heard from in over 30 years. The
inheritance, - a piece of run down country property – forces her to reach past
her comfort zone, and examine possibilities that she never thought possible. Exploring
this rundown piece of land, and meeting the surrounding neighbors, she uncovers
parts of her own life that she had long since abandoned.

What inspired you to write this book?

I had purchased a piece of
country property 20 years ago, and sold it shortly thereafter. (It turned out
to be a bad idea.) But the land with its barely standing shack, the smells of its
landscape, and the twisted dusty roads and hidden away neighbors stayed with
me. I started to write about it, and realized that the 5-acre parcel was
becoming the first character of a novel. For reasons I’ll never fully
understand, the main character, Hannah Blackwell, came to me, fully formed. The
neighbors followed shortly thereafter, all fictional, bearing no resemblance to
people in my life. The story kept unfolding as I wrote. I had no idea how it
would end, following Hannah’s discoveries right along with her. I loved the
idea of that someone’s life could begin again, just as they thought it was
over.

Excerpt from Blind
Shady Bend:

I took a good long look
around my living room. Square windows, square tables, square pictures on the
wall. All I could see were the squares. I kicked off my suddenly aching shoes
and one of them tumbled sideways against the ceramic vase covered with
seashells, of all things, that served as a doorstop next to the front door. The
shoe tipped the vase onto the tile entryway and the thing split into three neat
pieces. I was thrilled to see it come apart.

I stumbled into my kitchen,
hot and thirsty and filthy. My hands were cut up in places where I must have
grabbed before looking -- wild rose thorns caught under the stones, not to
mention the sharp slate edges themselves. The sweat under my armpits had come
and gone, leaving behind an acrid scent of dust and excess. I went to the sink,
watched the mud break loose from my fingers, and bent over to let the water
cool the top of my head, run down along the sides of my neck, my road map of
creases. I was tired, but a different kind of tired than I was used to, the
kind of tired that made me feel alive.

I wandered from room to
room, closed my eyes and counted eight steps to my kitchen counter, didn’t even
nick my hip on the chair on the way over, and decided that I had been living
most of my life as if blind-folded. Now the blindfolds were off, and the bright
light stunned me silent.

What exciting story are you working on next?

I am back to writing
essays – which was always my favorite genre. Mostly stories of my family,
friendships, marriages, divorces, all the stuff that fills the decades and
needs to be recorded. I may or may not weave the essays into a book – I’m
trying to stay away from end goals and simply enjoy the being in the moment of
writing whatever memories rise to the surface.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

Always. I used to write
when I was a young child, keeping the stories hidden in the bottom drawer of my
desk. I wrote to escape, and as I got older, I wrote to chronicle my life. It
wasn’t until I was much older, and realized that my writing was worth sharing
with others, that I began to call myself a writer, out loud, to others. I have
published 3 books and continue to write for no reason other than it makes me
feel profoundly alive.

Do you write full-time? If so, what's your work day
like? If not, what do you do other than write and how do you find time to
write?

Heavens no. I don’t do
anything full time. I love to work (or rather, play) in my garden. I love to
sing and am actively involved in 2 performing groups. I write when the spirit
moves me, and participate in writing groups to ensure that the spirit gets fed.
I am committed to and nurture many interesting, loving relationships, and
couldn’t possibly choose between any of those powerful connections.

What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

Ideas generally come to me
when I’m half asleep, or walking in the woods, or in a place where I’m nowhere
near and pen and paper – and I have to hold on to them and keep them safe in my
head until I find a way to transport them on to the page. It is both
frustrating and entertaining. But I’ve managed to complete 2 books of essays
and poetry and a novel using this method, a method I do not recommend.

As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

I had no idea. I never had
an idea. I followed whatever interesting, or necessary path presented myself,
and carved out a life where my creative world managed to stay afloat and be
productive, while I earned a living doing mundane tasks. Somehow it all worked
for me, maybe because I never loved to do any one thing to the exclusion of
others, which left me time to pursue a number of interests, talents and
responsibilities at the same time.

Anything additional you want to share with the
readers?

I started writing my novel
the year after my mother died. The novel has nothing to do with her, but I
think some kind of creative energy was released (she always told me I was a
writer and I never believed her), which translated into writing a book about an
older woman whose life was about to take a radical turn. My message to any
writer is that it is never too late to begin – that you are never too old to be
young, and to change the course of your life.

Monday, November 28, 2016

Mystery author Rita D’Orazio is helping me kick
off a new week. We’re chatting about her new mystery romance with paranormal
elements, Legend of the Coco Palms Resort.

Bio:

Being raised by two
immigrant parents has allowed me to open my eyes to many different cultures.
When I travel, which my husband and I love to do, I always tend to immerse
myself with the local people‑it’s the beauty of travel. I’m the youngest of
three siblings and the only one born in Canada. I have a great passion for
cooking, which I love to share with family and friends. As far as sports, I’d
have to say that summer recreational actives outweigh the winter for me.

Welcome, Rita. Please tell us about your current
release.

My current book is a
fictional story about the one time lavish and popular Coco Palms Resort in
Kauai, Hawaii. The story revolves around the fact that the resort was struck
down by Hurricane Iniki back in 1992 and was never rebuilt. It has sat dormant
for what will soon be 25 years. Also, knowing that the land was once home to
Kauaiian royalty, the body of the last reigning queen has never been found. I
felt that I wanted to bring the resort and the queen to life for the older
generation, that remember it, and also to bring awareness to the younger generation
who haven’t heard about it. The book depicts a heart-warming story of the
Kauaiian people and what the coconut grove, where the Coco Palms lays dormant
means to them. It’s a story about love, romance, mystery, and a sense of
loyalty.

What inspired you to write this book?

Let’s just say a gentleman
I met two years ago, who doesn’t quite know I exist. A chance encounter with
him had gnawed away at me until I started to tap my keyboard.

Excerpt from Legend
of the Coco Palms Resort:

Mike
was starting to get choked up. It took him a few seconds to gather his thoughts
and composure. “First of all, I want to say that I don’t expect forgiveness for
the things

I’ve
done. What I do want is for you to have an open mind. We are all `ohana here as
the queen stated. And as a family, we need one another more than ever before.”

“Mike, I can only speak for myself. No matter what you tell me, I
promise I’ll be objective,” said Kanoa.

“I appreciate it, son, but maybe you should hear me out first.”

Mike started to pace back and forth. “I’m going to go back a few years
here. You see, in the late ’60s, I would frequent this very property we are
standing on. One could say that I was a regular. I got to know the owners and
the management team, which was made up of Genie and Gerry. I was particularly
fond of Genie. We became instant friends.

“Anyhow, when Genie and Gerry
decided to retire, Genie asked to meet with me privately. I thought she was
going to tell me she was ill. Rather, she had something to

give
me. I went up to a private room, which no one ever used and Genie produced an
ornate box. The box was for me. When I asked Genie what was in it, she said she
didn’t know. She was just the messenger. I questioned her over and over about
where she got it, but Genie was embarrassed to tell me the truth. She feared
that I’d think she was lōlō. Well, she’d have been right. I thought she had
early signs of senility by the way she was behaving. She told me that once I
opened the box, I’d have all my questions answered. She begged me to never tell
her about the contents. Genie was told that her life would be in danger if she
found out about the contents. Upon opening the box, I knew it was from Queen
Deborah.”

“Queen Deborah died in 1853. This is preposterous. Come on Mike,” said
Kanoa. “Are we back to this again?”

What exciting story are you working on next?

I may continue doing a
series revolving around Legend of the Coco Palms or another family saga like my
other novel Driving in Circles—both
are at the swirling in my mind stage.

When did you first consider yourself a writer?

I’d have to say the moment
that my fingers first started to tap out paragraph after paragraph, which was
about four years ago. My life had come to yet another new phase. My girls were
up and gone, both my parents had passed away—leaving quite a big space in my
heart. After decades of getting up and rushing to the rat race, which was the
corporate world, it no longer made me happy. I knew then that it was time to
leave it behind and pursue what filled my heart up with joy everyday my eyes
opened. Of course, I owe a big part of that transformation to my husband. I
think he recognized it in me before I admitted it to myself.

Do you write full-time? If so, what's your workday
like? If not, what do you do other than write and how do you find time to
write?

I’m a very early riser. I
get up at 5:15 every day, feed my cats and make myself a cup of coffee. I love
the first hour of my day where I am alone with my thoughts. Then it’s seeing my
husband off to work and I sit in my home office and write. I’m definitely a
morning person. After hours of writing I try and fit a workout in. It always
helps rejuvenate the brain. Saying that, my mornings are pretty much routine up
until noon, and some days I will continue into the supper hours, but nothing is
routine for me in the afternoon. I try not to beat myself up about how many
hours I put in. I go by how productive I am feeling and if some days I’m not
there I don’t waste it by staring blankly at my screen. I’d rather be out doing
something and feeling refreshed.

What would you say is your interesting writing quirk?

Never fully satisfied
until I can feel the emotion behind every one of my characters.

As a child, what did you want to be when you grew up?

I wanted to be so many
different things that I don’t even know where to start. My very first career
was to be a nun. Definitely not because of any religious connotations, I liked
their outfits. What can I say I was a child of the 60s. I was always told I had
a bit of a wild imagination.

Anything additional you want to share with the
readers?

For those of you who want
to take a virtual tour of Kauai, please do read Legend of the Coco Palms Resort. I promise it will transport you to
paradise and you will not be disappointed.

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Blog Tour Partner - Goddess Fish

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About Me

I'm a NH native and love New England. I love writing about the region, exploring it on foot, on my bicycle, and in my car. There are so many small communities and fun and interesting people in this area, that I could be here a lifetime and not do all it is I want to do. :)

I'm a moderator at The Writer's Chatroom that hosts live chats with guest authors on Sunday nights 7-9PM EST. Join the e-mail list to get notifications of upcoming guests, then stop in and join the conversation!